


In The Desert

by boxofbreath



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Contains:, Gen, Lusii, Zombies, and a hell of a lot of sand, one very grouchy salestroll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8662933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxofbreath/pseuds/boxofbreath
Summary: There is something that anyone with half a pan, who is alive in the desert and intends to stay that way, needs to know. It is this: do not trust your senses.





	

There is something that anyone with half a pan, who is alive in the desert and intends to stay that way, needs to know. It is this: do not trust your senses. See something? Probably a mirage. Hear something? Just the wind. Feel something? Well, touch is harder to trick, but when you're sunstruck and sand-blasted, mouldering flesh can feel like soft skin and a daywalker going for your throat can be awfully similar to your moirail's loving embrace. The unwary are easily misled. So: trust nothing.

-

 It's just before sunrise when the dead start to get lively, so you like to cast an eye over the landscape to make sure all is as it should be (and that there aren't any coming up under the caravan - you aren't forgetting that incident in a hurry). The distant horizon is acquiring a fiery glow as you pop your head out of the skylight, and you can already feel its heat baking your skin. You gaze out at the shifting dunes, taking note of the scattering plumes of sand that are thrown up as the shadow droppers claw their way out of the ground. A particularly noisy brood erupts from the ground no more than twenty yards away, shattering your tranquil moment, so you glare at it and descend into the caravan hurriedly, firmly sealing up the hatch behind you. 

Your lusus has already dug himself into the fine sand under the wheels, where he should be safe - they rarely have the wits to look underground for food. You pause for a minute, listening to the gathering clamour outside, then quickly strip and climb into your coon, sighing in relief. It may be low-grade, watered down, and imbued with a grittiness you've never quite managed to filter out, but there's nothing to beat cool sopor after a long night.

It would be nice to drop instantly into a dreamless sleep, but even your exhaustion can't bear out over trippy daymares. You drift off into a world of pointy people and the swirling tentacles of some giant beast that you never catch more than a glimpse of.


End file.
